


Tough Luck

by Agent_24



Series: Fair Game Week 2020 [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Flirting, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Semblance (RWBY), fairgameweek2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23112367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_24/pseuds/Agent_24
Summary: They sit in the back of another transport, a little awkward and still new to each other. For once, Clover thinks he wouldn’t be content with letting whatever’s budding between them remain as it is, as abudand little else.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Series: Fair Game Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661305
Comments: 44
Kudos: 165





	Tough Luck

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1: Flirting/Semblance

“I hear,” Clover says offhandedly, flicking through a screen on his scroll before he looks up in plain amusement, “that taking a picture tends to last longer.”

Qrow startles a little—Clover could almost swear that his hair looks a tad fluffier, but only for a split second—then looks away sharply. “Sorry,” he mutters, brows knitting in embarrassment.

Clover huffs, not expecting such a severe reaction to the man being caught staring. “Don’t be,” he says, good-natured about it, closing his scroll and tucking it away in his pocket. “What can I do for you, Huntsman Branwen?”

Qrow wrinkles his nose. “You don’t have to keep calling me that,” he says. “Makes me feel old. Qrow is fine.”

Now Clover laughs a little more openly. Qrow looks surprised at the sound, though he quickly schools his face neutral. Clover says, “Alright then, Qrow. You’ve been staring at me for ten minutes. If you have something to ask, ask it.”

Qrow’s cheeks flush pink. It’s a pretty color on him. He scratches at his jaw, clearly hesitating, then says, “Your semblance…”

Clover sobers up immediately, sits up a little straighter. “What about my semblance?”

Qrow’s foot taps restlessly on the floor for a moment. The sound is nearly lost over the rumble of the transport truck they’re sitting in, but it’s so different from the way Qrow usually moves—with deceivingly effortless grace, cool-headed, purposefully lazy—that it snags Clover’s attention. 

He catches himself there, wonders if he’s known Qrow long enough to make that call with such confidence. Perhaps Qrow isn’t the only one who’s been staring. 

Qrow seems to catch himself too, the hand resting on his knee tightening as he stops tapping his foot. He squares his shoulders a little, like making up his mind, then says, “You seem proud of it.”

Clover hesitates, then replies, “I am.”

“And you seem like you have a handle on it. So I guess it doesn’t just…bounce around, seeking a target.”

“You’re asking if I ever had trouble controlling it,” Clover says, tilting his head.

Qrow’s fingers tighten again, almost imperceptible if not for the way it turns his knuckles white. “Yeah.”

Clover folds his arms and leans back against the transport wall, shrugging. “Of course I did,” he says simply. Qrow looks surprised. “Every semblance tends to go out of control if it’s not trained.”

“But how do you—” Qrow starts, frustration showing on his face before he cuts himself off and exhales in a huff that blows his bangs back. Then, more calmly, “Does Atlas not send their students out on training hunts?”

“We do.”

“Then you...were you still learning when you went on your first?”

“Qrow,” Clover answers, not unkindly, “You’re just beating around the bush, now. Ask me.”

“I’m asking how you trained your semblance without hurting people,” Qrow says, a little rushed. The square of his shoulders slumps as he slips back into a slouch. “You know as well as I do that luck is relative. And if you had trouble pinning it down when you were younger, then that means you dished out some good fortune to your enemies once or twice. Am I right?” 

Of course he’s right. It’s been a long time since Clover’s talked about it, a long time since anybody knew or bothered to ask. He presses his lips together and inhales, the question bringing up memories he’d rather keep buried as best he can. 

As if realizing this, Qrow looks away again. “Sorry,” he says again.

“Don’t be,” Clover repeats. “And you’re right, I did.” 

Qrow looks up again. He has pretty eyes, Clover thinks, the deep red of his iris woven with flecks of pink. Vermillion, maybe, but that sounds poetic enough to make Clover feel a little warm under his collar. Still, as good as Qrow is at controlling his features, those eyes betray him too easily. 

He looks painfully vulnerable, cautious, hesitant. 

Familiar.

“I’m sure you know semblances like ours tend to flare up with emotion,” Clover says after a moment. “With mine being good fortune...it tends to trigger most when I’m feeling victorious. Not exactly something you want when you’re on the battlefield, and your combat skills are constantly improving, and you don’t have an anchor point.”

Qrow’s brows knit at that, just slightly. Clover glances over Qrow’s form, looking for some sign of a charm, and finds nothing. Qrow seems to like wearing jewelry, but nothing he’s got on him is anything resembling a keepsake or anything lucky. Or unlucky, for that matter. 

Clover drums his fingers on his arm, then looks away and says, “Kinda made my confidence take a good few hits, back in the day. Knowing that feeling good about what you’re doing has a solid chance of screwing it up tends to suck the fun out of everything. And having everyone talk like your victories can be chalked up to fate instead of skill and the hours of work you’ve put into it, just to get pissed off when your semblance doesn’t end up meaning they can be lazy on the field…” he realizes he's rambling and trails off, frowning at nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Qrow says a third time, but this time it’s more sympathy than shame. A pause, then, “I get it. I mean…sort of, just…the opposite way around. Most people think I’m cursed.”

Clover meets his eyes again. “You’re not,” he says.

Qrow snorts, and combs his fingers through his bangs once. A nervous tick, if Clover’s ever seen one. “Bet you say that to all the Huntsmen you go on missions with,” he says.

Another deflection. Clover frowns. “You’re not cursed, Qrow,” he says, more insistent this time. “I mean it.”

Qrow blinks, like he’s used to being able to get away with that kind of joke, then drops his gaze again and leans back against his side of the transport, arms folding across his belly. Both of them now, closed off about something they should be open with.

Something tugs loose in Clover’s chest. He barely knows Qrow yet—the man’s hardly been in Atlas more than two weeks—but suddenly he wishes he hadn’t been so cagey with his story. He wants to tell Qrow all the details, about his teammate who got rushed to the hospital after a lucky swipe from a Beowulf, about his mentoring professor whose weapon had snapped when a Sabyr bit down just right.

And he wants to hear Qrow’s stories, wants Qrow to tell him about each and every time someone called him cursed or wretched or unwanted just so Clover can look him in the eyes and say _it’s not true, it’s not true, it’s not true._

He gets up from his spot and crosses the transport bed to Qrow’s side, watches Qrow’s eyes go a little wider as he approaches and waits. After a missed beat, Qrow scoots over to make room for him, and Clover takes a seat by his side, knees drawn up and his arms hanging over them. “You’re not cursed,” he says once more, softly this time.

“I know that,” Qrow says, a little defensively, but he doesn’t sound terribly convincing.

“Did no one give you anything to help channel your luck?” Clover presses. He reaches down to tap the rabbit foot at his belt. “My parents gave me this. Used to rub it for comfort during training runs. That’s how I figured out I needed something to help me direct it.”

Qrow shifts uncomfortably. “I uh…haven’t got much in the way of family. Outside of the girls.”

“Oh,” Clover says, unsure of how to respond to that. 

Qrow waves his hand dismissively, apparently having seen that reaction before. “Point is, I haven’t got anything. There aren’t many symbols of bad luck that people actually want to make.” 

“We could get you something. And it doesn’t have to be symbolic,” Clover tells him. “It just needs to be something you value.”

Qrow tosses a grin his way. Clover _—oh no—_ feels his heart skip a beat. “So, what,” Qrow asks, “you just wear all that crap because you like being a walking luck stereotype?”

“That…” Clover starts, then trails off, still recovering from that crooked smirk and the cut of Qrow’s goddamn stubbled jawline. He pouts. “You’re a little mean, aren’t you?” 

Qrow tosses his head back and laughs. Now it’s Clover’s turn to be startled, but more at how much he likes it than the fact that the man laughed in the first place. “Didn’t Winter tell you that?” he chuckles.

“She, uh…” Clover rubs the back of his neck. “She had a few choice things to say about you, yeah. I didn’t exactly believe her.”

Qrow raises a brow, still amused. “Oh, yeah?”

“I’d rather not repeat it,” Clover says quickly.

“Let me guess,” Qrow sighs, though a small smile lingers on his face. “Something something reckless drunk, something something disrespectful shithead, something something bad influence?”

Clover hunches his shoulders, feeling flustered. “She didn’t say _shithead,”_ he tries. 

Qrow laughs again. “Nice of her,” he says. He combs through his bangs again, up and back before he changes his mind and rakes them back down. His smile turns melancholic. “I’m getting better,” he murmurs, then, with a little more cheer, “about drinking, not the disrespect. That part’s kind of my brand.”

Clover huffs in surprise. “Disrespect’s a good look on you,” he says before his brain can catch up enough to tell him to keep that to himself. He’d kick himself if not for the way Qrow flushes, like he hadn’t been expecting the compliment. 

“Uh,” Qrow says, holding Clover’s gaze for a moment before he looks away, maybe out of embarrassment. “Thanks. Never had someone in the military tell me that.”

Clover smiles. “Glad to be the first,” he says, and Qrow only turns a darker shade of red for it. After a moment, Clover adds seriously, “You seem pretty healthy, for what it’s worth. I don’t know how…how bad it was for you, before.”

Qrow clears his throat. “It…wasn’t good. Still isn’t.” His eyes fall to his hand, and he opens and closes his fist a few times. “I still get bad cravings and withdrawal symptoms, but I…it feels better. Everything.” He laughs again, humorless this time, quiet and with that same tinge of shame as before. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Because I’m listening?” Clover offers.

Qrow looks up at him again, face softening. “I guess you are,” he murmurs.

Clover feels that loose thing in his chest tug a little more, turning warm behind his ribs. For just this moment, getting closer to someone doesn’t seem terrible. Some little whispering hope makes him think, against his will and better judgement, and with a near forceful kind of surety, _this one wouldn’t hurt you. Not him._

He scoots a little closer, ‘til their shoulders brush. Qrow pulls away ever so slightly on reflex, then settles again, their arms flush. 

The rest of the short ride is pleasantly quiet. 


End file.
